


Practice Makes Perfect

by cruisedirector



Category: King's Speech (2010)
Genre: Alternate History, Bathroom Sex, Bedroom Sex, Car Sex, Community: kings_speeches, Domestic, Family Issues, Food Sex, Games, Hiding, Intimacy, Kissing, Love Confessions, Marriage, Modern Royalty, Multi, Oral Sex, Playful Sex, Psychology, Royalty, Secrets, Speech Disorders, Teasing, Tongue Twisters, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-02
Updated: 2011-02-02
Packaged: 2017-10-15 07:46:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/158629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cruisedirector/pseuds/cruisedirector
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bertie and Lionel's wives have both observed changes in their husbands since the Duke of York started going to Harley Street.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Lasergirl wanted Bertie/Elizabeth marshmallow porn; I'm sorry to say there's not a single marshmallow in this story, though there are chocolate covered hazelnuts. Warnings: Lots of het sex, lots of homoerotic yearning. No marriages were harmed in the production of this fic, which is based on the movie but may seem too close to RPF for people passionately opposed to it. Thanks to Celandine for beta on demand.

"Let's go gathering healthy heather with the gay brigade of grand dragons."

With an exaggerated moan, Elizabeth put her pillow over her head. "Bertie, not again."

"Let's go gathering healthy heather with the gay brigade of grand dragons. Yes, again. I've only done it twice since yesterday morning. Let's go gathering healthy heather with the gay brigade of..."

"I can't. I'm exhausted. I can't keep up with the dragons -- the seven thick-stalked thistles took it all out of me."

Bertie laughed, rolling on top of her to pull the pillow away. "It was only two."

"It was only two _yesterday_. It's been more than seven this week. My strong thick sieve can only take so much." He was kissing her neck, and Elizabeth laughed a bit too. "My suspicion is that these tongue twisters don't do a thing for stammering, but Mr Logue has figured out that they encourage his patients to find other things to do with their tongues that also provide exercise."

Bertie's thigh slipped between hers, putting pleasant pressure on her pelvis. "Let's go gathering healthy heather..."

"Also, telling me to sit on your chest while you breathe in and out -- it's ridiculous. You could do that with a stack of books on your chest."

"They wouldn't wiggle." Bertie's fingers slid between her bottom and the bed, squeezing. He might always remain reticent about speaking, but the husband who'd been shy about what he wanted in bed had disappeared, replaced by this playful version. "It's a much more pleasant task when there's wiggling. Let's go gathering..."

"Please, Bertie, lay off the grand brigade of gay dragons."

"Gay brigade of grand dragons." Bertie pushed his thigh up against her for emphasis. "And I'm not laying on them. I'm laying on you."

"Wicked man." His hands were kneading her bum, pulling her up against him. "And all that rolling about on the floor, with me pushing you...I don't understand what that's supposed to do to strengthen your diaphragm."

The sessions of rolling back and forth on the rug invariably stopped with Elizabeth being pulled down for a kiss, and often rolled over herself, though that was rarely the end of exercising for the evening. She wondered whether Bertie ever got hard in Logue's office while being manhandled on the fraying carpet, and if so, what he did about it. Logue was undoubtedly vulgar enough that if he thought a quick pull before a speech would relax Bertie's throat muscles, he'd suggest it.

Bertie had pushed her robe open, kissing down her chest to her breasts. "Let's go gathering healthy heather with the gay brigade of grand dragons," he said around a mouthful of skin. "The diaphragm isn't the only muscle..."

"I'll say it's not. This is all about keeping your thick-stalked thistle happy." She heard Bertie hum happily, muffled by the nipple he was sucking. She was softening in spite of herself, growing wet between her legs, even though she was a bit sore from earlier and would undoubtedly be more so in the morning. "Honestly, you should ask him. 'Lionel, will it affect my treatment if my exercises at home invariably result in coitus?'"

Though he was grinning, Bertie blushed a bit as he looked up at her. "He'd tell me not to use words like 'coitus.'"

Not the faintest hint of a stammer on the hard C. In spite of herself, Elizabeth smiled. "Is Mr Logue a prude? Whoever would have guessed?"

"Quite the contrary. He'd tell me to say 'fuck.'"

"Bertie!"

She couldn't help laughing when he looked so much like a naughty schoolboy. The man she had married wouldn't have said 'fuck' to her in such a context, but the man she had married also wouldn't have crawled unannounced into her bed as he'd done a few weeks earlier, pulled her hand on top of his own, and asked her to show him exactly how she wanted to be touched. Nor would she have agreed to do so when she'd been a young wife, determined to prove herself a suitable and proper member of the royal family despite her less-than-regal family tree.

But Bertie nattered endlessly now about involuntary reflexes and muscle contractions and autonomic responses, and was as curious about hers as his own. It was as though he'd only just discovered that the uncooperative body he'd fought with since childhood -- to stand straight, to speak clearly, to write correctly and all the rest -- could be a source of ongoing pleasure, not only during rare moments of release. He laughed more easily, too, kissing her belly as he'd done when she was carrying their daughters, though at that time he wouldn't have dreamed of putting his tongue in her navel.

"Let's go fuck in the healthy heather..."

"That does it. I'm going to tell that man what a terrible influence he's been."

"You'll have to admit you've been encouraging me to sift my thistle in your sieve." Bertie's mouth moved lower for an entirely different sort of tongue-twisting. And Elizabeth knew that she would never try to discourage any exercise Lionel Logue suggested to her husband if it led to this.


	2. Chapter 2

"Before I go, I need new tongue twisters."

"Pardon?"

Bertie felt his face growing warm. He'd done enough complaining about the few tongue twisters that Lionel had already instructed him to practice. Not that Bertie really minded, but he enjoyed sparring with Lionel. No one else talked to him with such an utter lack of formality, not even his own little girls.

"I must have some new phrases. My wife says that if she has to hear about the brigade of grand dragons one more time, she'll stuff a stocking between my teeth." Startled, Lionel laughed, and Bertie thought that _she stuffed a stocking between my teeth_ might have its own merits.

"Try 'eleven benevolent elephants are irrelevant to seventy-seven celibate celebrants,'" Lionel said.

"Why would anyone be celebrating being celibate?"

"I've no idea. Perhaps that wouldn't be the best phrase to practice with your wife." Again Lionel laughed, looking at him speculatively, and the blush spread from Bertie's face down his neck, remembering the questions Elizabeth had joked that he should put to Dr Logue. "Would she prefer 'I wish to wash my Irish wrist watch'?"

"She'd prefer it to be a Swiss pocket watch." The W still caused Bertie trouble more than any letter besides the K, though rarely with Lionel any longer. "She's been very helpful with the diaphragm exercises. I don't want her to hide from me to avoid listening to my tongue twisters."

"You could do the diaphragm exercises with your girls, you know. They don't have to know the reason for them. Pretend it's a game, let them sit on your belly and you can be a dolphin or a giant tortoise."

Lionel was still studying him, and Bertie was afraid that if his face turned any more scarlet, he'd be required to undergo a full physical examination. Between himself and Elizabeth, _Will you help me with my exercises?_ was, at this point, nearly synonymous with _Will you make love with me?_ and the answer was nearly always identical. Two days earlier, she had announced that she was tired of sitting sidesaddle, so she spread her legs on either side of him, and they'd ended up --

"You aren't embarrassed about the exercises, are you? It's very important that you keep doing them."

"Not embarrassed." Bertie ran a hand over his face, trying to will the blush away. In fairness, Lionel would probably be entirely matter-of-fact about it if Bertie confessed that he had speech exercises and sex mixed up in his head. Lionel was very matter-of-fact about touching him, pretending not to notice if Bertie shivered or twitched, and he'd ignored it entirely that one time Bertie had wound up hard in his pants from Lionel standing so close behind him, pushing on his lower back to make him stand up straighter while singing his vowels. Lionel didn't waste energy on embarrassment -- it was one of the things Bertie admired about him. "All right, I am embarrassed, but it's because I accidentally said something rather obscene while I was trying to spit out the thick-stalked thistle line, and now I can't get it out of my head."

Lionel laughed delightedly. "Why, Bertie, I didn't know you had it in you. Can you still say it without stammering?"

"'She sifted seven thick-stalked thistles through a strong thick sieve.'"

"There, listen to how much your control has improved." Beaming with pride, Lionel nodded at him, and despite his embarrassment, Bertie felt his chest expand as it always did when Lionel was pleased with him. Working with Lionel made him feel better than anything he'd ever done before. He could never wait to get home and shut himself away with Elizabeth after a session.

Returning the smile, Bertie said, "Till tomorrow, then. Find me some less precarious tongue twisters, Doctor."


	3. Chapter 3

"Why are the celebrants celibate?"

"I asked Logue the same question. He couldn't think of a reason." Bertie smiled at her as Elizabeth brushed a chocolate covered hazelnut over his lower lip. The chocolate was melting and left a dark smear like lipstick across his mouth. She licked it off, her tongue encountering his, also sweet.

"Did you tell him it was an odd sort of tongue twister? Doesn't he know one with 'fuck' in it?" Bertie's eyes went wide, his nostrils flared, and his hands gripped her bum more tightly. If she had known vulgarity of this sort would please him so much, she would have indulged in it earlier in their marriage. "Did you tell him how you'd mangled his healthy heather?"

"I did, actually. He found it amusing." One of Bertie's hands shot out, catching Elizabeth's wrist, bringing her chocolate-covered fingers to his mouth. He licked one, then lowered his mouth over it and sucked. The sensation and his half-lidded expression of pleasure sent equal jolts of heat into her lower body. Melted chocolate had already dripped on the pillow. She could only imagine what the maids would whisper about it in the morning.

Bertie's head bobbed, sliding his lips up and down her finger, and she caught her breath. Was he making a request of her? From the gossip within her family, not even proper mistresses did _that_ for their lovers, only prostitutes or women like David's latest adulteress. In all likelihood, Bertie had been with such women -- he'd had some experience before they had married -- and she knew that Bertie would not judge her appetites if she wished to try it, but she was fairly certain she would never want to do _that_ with her own mouth. Her throat tightened unpleasantly just thinking about it.

Watching Bertie, however, Elizabeth saw no hint of suggestiveness on his face. His eyes were fully closed now, all his concentration on sucking her finger, which he seemed to find as enjoyable as she did. Perhaps it was another exercise. "Did Logue tell you to do this?"

Her husband's eyes flew open as his head dropped back. "With the chocolates? No, of course not." His cheeks had turned pink. Perhaps he'd realized what it had looked like he was doing when he sucked her finger.

Elizabeth was sorry she had interrupted him. The hazelnut had slid out of her palm, leaving a sticky trail. She picked another one from the bowl. "I thought perhaps it was the same principle as the marbles -- to try to talk when there's something in your mouth."

"Not everything I want to do is a speech exercise." Bertie smiled as her hand moved back to his lips, using his tongue to steal the hazelnut from between her fingers, then licking away the chocolate that had dripped onto her wrist.

Of course, it had been ridiculous to think that Logue would have asked him to do such a thing. When Elizabeth tried to picture Logue demonstrating it, she only succeeded in making herself blush. "We've hardly exercised at all this evening," she reminded Bertie.

"Pass me another. I'd thought of a different way to exercise my tongue." He reached to take the new hazelnut from her, sliding the sweet along her thigh, leaving a trail of chocolate behind. His mouth slid down her body. "You don't think Lionel would object if I alternated tongue twisters, do you?"

As she moved her legs apart for her husband, Elizabeth was still picturing his mouth on her finger and wondering what he'd been thinking as he sucked it. Bertie always said Logue's name with such passion. "You'd know better than I would," she said. "You're the one who's in love with him."

Bertie sputtered -- not stammered, there was a difference. He jerked his head up. "I most certainly am not." He shook his head, his fingers longer teasing her. The hazelnut fell to the bed in a puddle of melting chocolate.

"You can't stop talking about him even in bed with me." Although Bertie tried to return her smile, his entire demeanor had changed. Clearly, Elizabeth had touched a nerve. "It's all right, sweetheart -- I don't mind. You really are speaking much better, and it isn't as if I haven't been enjoying all these exercises."

"He helps me. You know that. I have to k-keep doing the exercises, or I c-c-c-"

Instantly Elizabeth felt contrite. "I know that, darling," she soothed, putting a hand on Bertie's face. She could feel the tension in his jaw. "You know I enjoy them. And, don't tell Mr Logue I said so, but I am rather fond of the man. He's good for you. He makes you happy, which makes me happy."

She pushed a chocolate into his mouth before he could reply. They both needed a moment. Her heart was racing as it had been since she'd allowed herself to picture Bertie sucking Lionel Logue's finger. If Logue had wanted to, Elizabeth had no doubt that he could have persuaded Bertie to do it. There wasn't much that Bertie wouldn't do for Lionel, especially after that ridiculous man had given her husband a model airplane kit as a birthday gift. She wasn't meant to know that Bertie had it in his desk drawer.

Bertie had relaxed again, swallowing the chocolate, and Elizabeth leaned down to kiss him. His sticky fingers moved to cup her breast. Whatever experiences he might have had before their marriage, Elizabeth was certain that he'd been faithful to her since. Not only that, but that apart from herself and their girls, he had no confidants, no one to whom he had ever unburdened himself apart from Lionel Logue. There were secrets he might never confess to his wife and would certainly never give out to his brothers.

"Bertie," she began uncertainly.

"Yes, darling?" His mouth was following his hand, kissing down her body, yet she couldn't get the image of him sucking her finger out of her mind.

"I really don't mind." He nodded, probably thinking she meant about the tongue twisters and the exercises, and she felt compelled to continue. "If you ever needed to -- well, to do exercises with him that you can't do with me -- "

His head lifted, staring at her, and for a terrifying moment, she thought she'd said precisely the wrong thing. Made him think that she doubted his strength or his reserve or God forbid, that he was as much a man as his father. Then he dove on top of her, kissing her hard, his weight pressing her thighs apart, and she knew she'd been right after all.


	4. Chapter 4

Myrtle always held back until the moment she thought Lionel would be most vulnerable. He'd been a new man ever since the new visitor he'd never named, but recently the change had been even more pronounced. He no longer moped about drama troupes that wouldn't give him roles, he no longer fretted about stammering children who couldn't afford to pay. No matter how late, he came home every evening with a smile on his face, and he often couldn't even wait until the boys had gone to sleep to let his hands wander.

Lionel knew that she wouldn't give up until she had her answers, but Lionel also loved games and loved teasing and loved Myrtle, which was how they had ended up in the lav this evening with her skirt hiked up around her waist and her bum crushed uncomfortably on the edge of the sink. She was going to have a bruise, but she didn't care.

"Who is he?" she panted in his ear.

"You know I can't tell you." She couldn't see his face, pressed against her own as he moved in and out of her with his fingers clutching her hips.

"I've seen the car. I have a good idea."

"That's fine, but I. Can't. Tell. You." Lionel's thrusts punctuated the syllables.

"Mrs Mason saw him going in. She knew it was one of the Princes."

"Myrtle..."

He tried to kiss her to silence her. It never worked. "Everyone knows about the stammer. Even Laurie knows, he was with you at Wembley."

"Stop it, stop it --"

"You don't have to say his name." Lionel's hand maneuvered between them, found the spot just above where he was moving in and out of her, thumb moving steadily. Myrtle's breath hitched. "I'll say it."

"Shush. You won't. Don't you dare." His eyes had closed, muscles in his neck straining, he was close. She loved having him in her thrall like this, moving so urgently. And she knew just how to make him come apart.

"Prince Albert. The Duke --"

"Myrtle!"

"-- of York." Lionel was already convulsing, shuddering against her, using her shoulder to muffle the sounds he was making. She hoped the boys were too busy to hear the pipes creak as she and Lionel rattled the sink. "Just say yes, just say yes!" A toothbrush clattered to the floor.

Of course, he couldn't speak at all, at first, gulping for breath as he was. Then he sighed softly, slipping out of her, tugging her from her perch on the sink as he dropped to his knees to find a new excuse to keep himself silent.

"Lionel..."

"Can't." He pulled her legs apart, supporting her weight with his hands on the backs of her thighs as his tongue went seeking through the wet hair between them.

"But you want to." Oh God, he'd always been good at this and lately he was even more enthusiastic -- when they'd first married, he'd never have done it so soon after finishing. "You write notes about him on your napkins, you save your appointment diaries." He made a noncommittal noise, moving his tongue, turning a thumb inward to rub her with that, too. "You _think_ his name, I know it, even when we do this..."

Somehow Lionel got his finger inside her without dropping her, and she had to stop speaking before she cried out and alerted the children. She knew she was right. And he'd admit it; it was only a matter of time.


	5. Chapter 5

“I’m sorry about the tongue twisters, Your Royal Highness,” Lionel said to Elizabeth when he saw that she had accompanied Bertie to his waiting room, as she still did on occasion. Also, as she still did on occasion, she looked at him as though he’d sprouted antlers and a tail. “I know it can be difficult to listen to the repetition...”

“Did my husband tell you that?” she asked sharply, her face flushing.

“Not in so many words, but he did ask me whether I knew any others so he could stop driving his family mad.” Lionel couldn’t read the expression she shot at Bertie, who shifted uncomfortably as well, though for a moment Lionel had thought Bertie might burst out laughing.

Elizabeth sat down, stiffly, in the more comfortable waiting room chair that Lionel had ordered specifically with her in mind, and pulled out a book, a clear dismissal of the men. He gestured toward the consultation room, and Bertie followed him inside.

“Everything all right?”

“Yes. N-no. That is, yes.”

The hesitation sounded less like a stammer than being unsure of the response. “You don’t sound entirely certain, Bertie.” Lionel watched as the Duke of York seated himself and took off his gloves. “No problems speaking?”

“None since I last saw you. Far fewer than before. Everyone I know says I sound like a different man.”

Lionel smiled at him. Bertie looked like a different man as well -- he sat straighter, held his head higher, laughed more easily. That last in particular might just have been comfort with Lionel, but the couple of times he’d gone to see Bertie speak in public, hiding in the crowd where he could remain invisible, Bertie had seemed much more at ease, both in front of an audience and making pleasantries before and after. “You sound like a happier man,” observed Lionel.

“I am. Thanks to you. Eliz- My wife said so as well.” Bertie tilted his head toward the door to the consultation room. Once again, his cheeks were flushed. “We’ve been doing the exercises every day.”

Pulling in a smirk, Lionel nodded. Now all the blushing and stammering made sense. “Enjoying them?” he asked. Bertie glanced up at him, mouth already rounded to speak a denial, but instead he nodded stiffly. “That’s good. It will reinforce the breathing if you associate it with being relaxed.”

“I’m not sure ‘relaxed’ is the word I would use.” Bertie rubbed a hand over his face, which was now nearly scarlet. “Logue, I don’t quite know how to ask this, or even whether I should...”

“You know anything you say will be held in the strictest confidence.” Lionel paused, thinking of Myrtle, his own cheeks feeling faintly warm. “I don’t think any harm can come of taking a break in the middle of the exercises, if that’s what you were going to ask.”

“It isn’t just that.” Bertie’s voice had gone quiet, though it remained steady. “My w-wife thinks...fuck, fuck, fuck. She thinks I’m p-preoccupied with you.”

“With me?” This was an unexpected turn, and one for which Lionel was unprepared. “You mean with getting my approval on your progress?”

Bertie shook his head. “I expect that’s part of it, but you must know what I mean. She teases me about -- oh, everything, she knows about the model airplane, she says I talk about you all the time. Even in bed.”

Swallowing, Lionel tried to gather his thoughts. A couple of times, he’d thought Bertie might have been a bit excited, even aroused, while they were rolling around on the floor together, but he’d written it off as an automatic physical response from a man unused to being touched in such a manner, and he hadn’t even been certain that Bertie had been aware of it as such.

“What’s it going to do to my bloody speech if she’s right?”

Lionel remembered a young soldier, barely eighteen, frail and terrified. The boy had barely been able to speak for weeks, and by the time he’d recovered his voice -- frozen into silence not only by the battlefield, but by what his father had done to him many years earlier -- he’d tearfully blurted out devotion to Lionel, who’d stumbled over his own words trying to explain that it was only a phase in healing and it would pass. The boy had been mortified into silence, and Lionel had never seen him again. He heard later that the boy had hanged himself. Guilt and remorse had haunted him for months.

“Doctor?”

The word tugged him back to the present, to Bertie in his consultation room looking nearly as humiliated. At least Lionel had learned a bit since then. He walked over and sat down next to Bertie, taking a deep breath.

“I think your wife is misunderstanding the nature of your preoccupation.”

Bertie laughed mirthlessly. “That’s what I told her. I wish I were sure it was true.”

At least Bertie didn’t sound like his defenses were up. That Elizabeth adored her husband, Lionel had no doubt; she wouldn’t have teased Bertie unkindly. “People often confuse one kind of preoccupation for another,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant about it rather than as if he were lecturing. “Working on your voice had made you more comfortable. And more confident.” Lionel was nearly stammering himself, thinking of Myrtle and her wicked words. “You associate the exercises with both feelings.”

“And with pleasure,” added Bertie, glancing toward the door to the waiting room, eyes slightly unfocused. No wonder Elizabeth had blushed when Lionel had apologized about the tongue twisters. “But if that’s all it is, why isn’t the feeling for my wife? Or contrarily for any passing woman I might find attractive? Why is it so specifically focused on you?”

 _Down, boy._ Drawing on the concentration he'd learned to feign as an actor, Lionel forced himself to look Bertie in the eye. “I don’t want to presume, but I imagine it’s because for a long time you’ve not been used to feeling at ease except among people to whom you’re already attached, like your family.” Bertie tilted his head to one side, considering, then he nodded a bit. “So when you do feel at ease, your mind connects that with the idea that you must have formed an attachment.”

“You know I slept with other women before I was married. I never felt any sort of attachment to any of them.”

“But that was my point, that attachment isn’t necessarily indicative of preoccupation. As adults, we tend to think of many physical urges as forbidden because we've learned not to go around holding hands or kissing our acquaintances, but it doesn’t necessarily follow that because we enjoy being touched by someone, it implies a carnal attachment.” Lionel didn’t dare ask, but he had a feeling that most of Bertie’s premarital experiences had been with women who got by in life servicing wealthy men. Unconsciously, perhaps Bertie _did_ think of Lionel as a geisha girl, despite Lionel’s protest. “I’m guessing that you didn’t have much physical affection from your parents -- no kisses goodnight, no hugs when you’d hurt yourself. Now you let me touch you because I let you sing and build models and other things your parents told you not to do. So I’m only a proxy for feelings you weren’t allowed to express in the natural way to other people.”

“A proxy?”

“Whatever you feel toward me isn’t really about me. It’s a safe place to direct feelings you never got to show to others. I believe the appropriate response is for me to tell you that I’m honored, but it would be a betrayal of your trust to let you believe they could ever lead anywhere.”

“I’d had the impression that the appropriate response might be to tell me that I’m a pervert.” Bertie’s eyes were downcast but his voice was surprisingly strong.

“I’m no moralist, and I don't believe such inclinations are a perversion in nature -- they're too common for that. You must have had some glimpses in the Navy. I certainly did with soldiers. What _would_ be perverted would be to allow you to wallow in feelings that are misdirected. It would be selfish of me, and you’d come to hate me for it, and that would have a terrible effect on all the progress you’ve made.”

“You haven’t said you don’t want me.” Had Lionel been hoping that Bertie wouldn’t notice, or that he would? “Instead I think you’re telling me that _I_ don’t really want _you_.” Bertie’s brows furrowed. He looked less relieved than Lionel had expected. His shoulders slumped, discouraged.

“I’m quite sure you don’t, and if you consider it, you’ll agree.” To break the tension, Lionel laughed a bit. “Go on, test my hypothesis if you wish.”

He’d meant that Bertie should consider it, but that wasn’t what Bertie heard; Bertie heard only the invitation. Lionel realized it an instant too late, as he sat there wondering why Bertie had taken his hand even though Bertie’s was shaking, and he watched Bertie’s eyes fall shut. By the time Lionel had thought to ask himself which was a bigger crime, kissing a prince or refusing a prince, Bertie’s lips were touching his.

And Lionel had lost the capacity for reason, for Bertie kissed exceptionally well. Lionel didn’t know why this surprised him, since Bertie was careful and methodical in so many aspects of his life, but Bertie was usually cautious when trying new things, and there was no caution in the mouth that moved over Lionel’s. Once he realized that Lionel wasn’t going anywhere, Bertie smiled, parting his lips (warm, soft, tasting of cigarettes) and his tongue stroked Lionel’s as his free arm came up around Lionel’s waist.

Again Myrtle’s words came back to Lionel: _You_ think _his name, I know it._ His own wife knew he'd been interested; obviously he'd done an equally poor job of hiding it from Bertie, who glowed with happiness whenever Lionel encouraged him. Lionel leaned in to the kiss, returning it, giving Bertie his tongue, refusing to think any further about whether he was doing it for Bertie or for himself. He wasn't about to put a stop to one of the best kisses he'd ever had -- from the son of the bloody King of England -- just because it was immoral, unethical, and probably sinful.

Bertie drew back, the muscles in his jaw relaxed under Lionel's hand, which Lionel didn't remember lifting to Bertie's face in the first place. "Your hypothesis is wrong, Doctor. I'm afraid that my clever wife is right this time. And unless I'm very much misreading, you enjoyed that." Lionel didn't dare speak; he didn't trust his own voice. "I know that you're a happily married man, and I'm a happily married man, and it would be absolute madness to pursue this, but please don't tell me I don't feel what I know I feel. You're the one person I can usually count on not to make me pretend."

There wasn't a single stammer in a word Bertie had said. Lionel closed and opened his eyes. When he spoke, his voice sounded hoarse in his own ears. "You're right, of course. Especially about the absolute madness. Far be it from me to argue with a prince." At least he'd made Bertie smile. "Now, since you did ask about your bloody speech, do you suppose we can pretend that didn't just happen, and get back to the exercises?"

"We can get back to the exercises." Bertie tilted his head from side to side, loosening his tongue, though he appeared more relaxed than Lionel could remember seeing him, and his eyes were warm and happy.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._


	6. Chapter 6

Bertie was silent in the car, but smiling. He squeezed Elizabeth’s hand.

“What did...”

He shook his head, indicating the driver with his chin. She lowered her voice.

“Did you talk to him?” Her husband shifted a bit on the seat. His shoulders wriggled. “Dear God.”

Bertie looked over at her, then dove at her, heedless of the driver and the windows that they both knew perfectly well couldn’t stop determined people from looking in.

“Sweetheart!”

Beneath her coat, his hand was on her breast, and his mouth was devouring her throat. He’d never kissed her like this in public, or even in their own rooms when there were maids nearby. A low, guttural groan burst from his throat.

“Darling, can’t you wait till we’re home?”

She felt him stop himself, breathless, so hard that she could feel it even through his coat and her dress. “If I must. It’s your fault, you know.”

“My fault!” She laughed a bit, trying to lean back to look at him. His tight embrace wouldn’t permit it. “Did you and Doctor Logue work on your tongue twisters?”

“A bit.” He kept his face hidden against her neck, beneath her hair. “And breathing exercises.”

Elizabeth laughed softly again, keeping her voice low. “And once again, those pleased you so greatly that you can’t wait to ravish me?”

He sat back, flushed, looking at her adoringly. “I can never wait. I never really could, but I was too shy to tell you.” She put a hand on his cheek; he pulled it away long enough to remove her glove, then, lowered his face to kiss it. “He has untied my tongue.”

“So I said, the other night.” It occurred to her that Bertie might want not to remember, but he nodded against her palm. She whispered, “You told him?”

"I didn't phrase it quite the way you did." Bertie laughed softly into her hand. "'Love' is a hard word -- I thought I'd stammer." Elizabeth felt her breath catch in her throat; Bertie had had trouble saying that word to her, too, though she'd thought it was an emotional rather than a physical hesitation. His kisses continued over her wrist and up her arm.

"What did you say?"

"That I wanted to kiss him. No -- actually I didn't say that." He placed an exuberant kiss on the inside of her elbow. "I just went ahead and did it."

Elizabeth felt her face growing warm. She tried to decide whether she was jealous. She didn't think so -- she begrudged Logue nothing, and she knew Bertie well enough to understand this had nothing to do with his feelings for her. "I hope you didn't shock the poor doctor," she sighed.

Bertie smiled up at her. "I'm afraid I did, but he didn't ask me to leave. He said 'I'll see you tomorrow, Bertie.'" The car lurched, sending him sprawling into her lap, making him laugh. "I don't imagine he'll let me do it every time I see him, but he didn't object."

Of course Lionel didn't object. Elizabeth had little doubt that he was just as much in love with Bertie as Bertie was with him. Nearly everyone Bertie knew held him somehow inferior to David -- even she had once hoped to catch the eye of the elder brother, before she'd been properly introduced to either, long before she'd understood that Bertie was a far better man than the Prince of Wales would ever be. But Logue was entirely devoted to Bertie and had little interest in his titles. Though Bertie complained on occasion that Lionel had too little respect for his position, it must have been a delightful novelty to know that someone in his life loved him entirely for himself.

Elizabeth smiled indulgently at her husband. "I'm glad you're happy," she said, meaning it with all her heart.

Bertie's grin turned naughty. His hand reached down, finding her leg, then began to work its way upward. "Let's go gathering healthy heather," he said, mangling the last two words, but his face was already burying itself in her lap as she gasped in mock outrage.

Their driver had nearly been dismissed when he'd made one of the maids pregnant. Bertie had saved both their jobs. They were utterly devoted to the Duke and Duchess, which was the only reason Elizabeth felt brave enough to tap on the window and ask if they might please be driven the long way through the park.


	7. Chapter 7

Lionel looked fretful all through dinner. Myrtle hadn't seen him so uneasy since shortly after they'd left Australia, when it had been months since he'd had a role and his patients were dwindling. The boys were noisy and distracting during the meal, so she waited until Laurie had gone off in search of his latest girlfriend and the younger two were doing homework to corner Lionel by the table where he was scribbling frantically in his diary. "What's wrong, love?"

"Nothing." He knew her well enough to know the speed alone of his reply would give lie to his words. "I just had a difficult day."

"Trouble with a patient?" There was only one patient who could possibly have left him this glum. "Some sort of disagreement?"

Lionel looked up at her from the pages. He knew her well enough to know that she would not let it go until he told her something, and he knew she knew him well enough to have guessed that no minor argument would have left him in such a state.

“You know my patient of whom we never speak?”

Myrtle had to look away to hide a smile. _The Duke of York?_ she wanted to say. _But we speak of him all the time when we're alone._ If Lionel was upset, teasing would only make matters worse. Still, he seemed to catch her mood, because he sighed and smiled himself.

“I may have done something unforgivable.” The grin faded. “Not only to him. To you.”

She waited, but Lionel did not continue. From the other room she heard Antony calling to Valentine for help with his homework. Stepping in, she told him to look it up, then switched on the radio to make things more private when she returned to Lionel, fetching him a cup of tea before sitting in the chair opposite.

“Now, what happened? Did you quarrel with your patient?” Perhaps he’d offered Lionel quite a lucrative position and Lionel had refused to take it, citing his other patients. Myrtle had been complaining about how expensive things were for the boys.

“Much worse.” Raising an eyebrow, Myrtle blew on her tea, waiting. “I kissed him.”

For a moment she thought Lionel was joking. “If you can’t talk about what really...”

Lionel had raised his fingers to his mouth, touching his lips, seemingly unaware of the gesture. His hand was shaking.

“Sweetheart. You actually kissed...” Now even she couldn’t say the name. “... _him_?”

Dropping his hand to the table, Lionel nodded. She waited for a moment, then reached to close her own fingers around his.

“Whatever possessed you to do such a thing?”

Her husband laughed mirthlessly. “Well, he was kissing me, at the time.”

Myrtle glanced toward the door that connected the rooms. She could hear the radio, but not the boys. “Just to be sure I understand,” she whispered. “He kissed you, and you kissed him back? That’s your unforgivable confession?”

Swallowing, Lionel nodded. “Yes.”

Unable to help herself, Myrtle laughed. Lionel looked at her in surprise, but she couldn’t stop at first, even though she knew he was genuinely distressed. “Sorry, oh love, I’m sorry,” she said, trying to catch her breath. “I can see where that may make things very awkward with him, but you weren’t expecting me to be angry, were you?”

Lionel was looking at her oddly. “I thought you would be, yes,” he said. “After all your complaining that I wouldn’t even tell you his name.”

She squeezed his fingers. “I’ve only been teasing. I’ve known almost from the beginning who he must be. I know you’re not supposed to talk about it.” There, now her husband looked happier -- relieved, at least. Myrtle lowered her voice again. “But now you must tell me -- he _kissed_ you?”

Now that he knew she wasn’t angry, Lionel looked a bit sheepish. Color crept into his cheeks. “Right in my consulting room.”

“What in the world had possessed _him_?”

“Tongue twisters, I think. And breathing exercises. Apparently he and his wife -- well, people sometimes get carried away, because it’s a lot of physical focus and some of the exercises require touching another person. One minute I was reassuring him that an increased libido couldn’t possibly be a detriment to his efforts to improve his speech, and the next...”

“...he kissed you,” she finished as he touched his mouth with his other hand. She couldn’t help smiling. “Did he jump up afterward and fly out of the room?”

“He did not. He wasn’t even particularly embarrassed. I was the one sitting there with...”

“A bulge in your trousers?”

“Myrtle! I was going to say with my face beet red.” It was red again now, but Lionel was smiling back at her. Withdrawing her hand, she took a sip of her tea, watching him fondly. “What am I going to do?”

“Why do you need to do anything? If he wasn’t embarrassed, then it sounds like the only problem is in your trousers, excuse me, your head, and you can always bring that home to me.”

Lionel leaned across the table, pressing his forehead against hers. “What am I supposed to do if he does it again?”

“You think he might?” Her husband shrugged. “Did you tell him it’s not usually your policy to kiss patients?” He nodded. “Well...did you like kissing him?”

“I’m afraid I did.” He met her eyes, looking a bit lost.

“In that case, if he does it again, I should think it’s obvious what you need to do.” Lionel smiled hopefully. “You need to be very, very discreet. Perhaps you should put a lock on the door to your consultation room. Just in case."

Now it was clear that he thought _she_ was joking. "Yes, very wise. I may need to bolt the door in case Bertie -- that is, in case some patient or other should have need of my _services_..."

"You call him Bertie?" she interrupted. Silence, as Lionel lowered his head. "Sweetheart, you and I both know he isn't just any patient. It makes me proud that you have such a patient. It...excites me."

"It excites you?" He glanced back up, his expression speculative.

"Surely you've noticed."

"Just to be very clear..." Lionel cleared his throat. "You are suggesting that I...indulge myself. With _him_. Not that I believe for a moment that he has any intention of taking things any further..."

"Only if you wish, of course." Myrtle tried to suppress a smile, but didn't quite succeed. She wanted to add, _On the condition that you tell me all about it_. But that would come in time.

Lionel's eyes darted toward the doors that separated them from their children. He looked embarrassed and nervous and as excited as she'd seen him since they were young. "You're completely mad," he said. She stood, and he followed, creeping from the kitchen with her, letting her pull him into the narrow storage space beside the loo and push his hand under her clothing.


	8. Chapter 8

Bertie had been afraid he'd made things terribly awkward for Lionel, but the exercises went smoothly and easily, and they made each other laugh when Lionel had as much trouble with the Irish wrist watch as it was giving Bertie. He'd wanted to bring Elizabeth with him, but she insisted that he should talk to Lionel without her hovering nearby, and he found that he did like having Lionel entirely to himself, singing vowels and uttering naughty words with gusto.

"May we pretend for a moment that what we're pretending didn't happen did happen after all?" he asked Lionel while he was catching his breath from speaking while spinning.

Lionel stiffened slightly, but he nodded, sitting not on the sofa but on the chair beside it. "I suppose we should," he said. "Unless you're planning to tell me it was all a terrible mistake, in which case I recommend that we go right on pretending it didn't happen."

"Is that what you think, that it was a terrible mistake? Be honest with me, please." Silence, then Lionel shook his head no. "Nor do I. I suppose I should, but when I think about it -- and I do think about it rather a lot -- it makes me very happy."

Sitting back, Lionel crossed his arms over his chest as though he were trying to hold something in. "You asked me to be honest with you, so I will. I think that you're a far braver man than I am. Despite appearances, you aren't afraid to be rash, reckless, even a bit mad."

None of those were words that Bertie had ever heard used in a positive light. "You're trying to tell me you didn't enjoy it," he guessed.

"Oh, no. I enjoyed it very much." Chuckling a bit, Lionel shook his head. "In fact, I believe all that greatly contributed to why I enjoyed it."

The tightness in Bertie's chest that always eased when he saw Lionel -- or even when he knew he was going to see Lionel -- gave way to warmth. He leaned across the space between their seats. "Perhaps I should be reckless more often."

Lionel gazed at him for a long time, his expression not inviting so much as wistful. It had occurred to Bertie that Lionel's wife might not be nearly as understanding as his own; it had also occurred to Bertie that Lionel was quite a bit older than he was, and perhaps less driven by his body's demands. In some ways an outright rejection would uncomplicate everything very quickly, yet that didn't seem to be what Lionel had in mind.

"You said you would be honest," he reminded Lionel softly.

Nodding, Lionel lowered his eyes. "I won't pretend I'm not tempted. I've been teasing myself constantly -- wouldn't it be good for him to be a bit rash, wouldn't it help him not to stop himself all the time when he wants to blurt something out, wouldn't it be noble of me to show him what good things can come of expressing himself directly? As though I don't know perfectly well that it's all an attempt to justify what _I_ want. But I'd have to be a great fool not to know the risks involved, and Bertie, with all my heart, I want to keep you from harm. You must understand that. It's beyond practical problems like the likelihood of getting found out."

Lionel paused, lips pursed and brows drawn together, which made his expression fierce and passionate. Bertie nodded; he didn't trust himself to speak.

"I shouldn't have told you all that psychological rubbish the other day. I'm not sure I believe it, and even if I did, I said it more to protect myself from having to tell you that your presence in my life is of very great importance to me. I would do almost anything to make it continue, and since I'm supposed to be teaching you self-reliance, I have an obvious conflict of interest. If you feel dependent on my approval or even my presence, even if it has nothing to do with your confidence in speaking, then I'm not doing my job. My job is to know when to help you and when to step back so you see what you can do on your own."

Grief washed over Lionel's face, so quickly that Bertie wasn't entirely sure that that was what it had been. He wondered whether something had happened to one of those boys in Australia who'd come back from the front, something for which Lionel had blamed himself. "Suppose I were to tell you I trust you..." Bertie began.

"It's very kind, but I'm trying to tell you that I don't trust myself." Lionel took a deep breath and let it out slowly, the way he'd taught Bertie to do. "I love you much too much to pretend otherwise."

Bertie had tears in his eyes before Lionel had stopped speaking. He tried without complete success to blink them back, nodding. Clearing his throat, he whispered, "You're very generous."

"No, I'm very selfish. I want to see you coming through that door for years to come, and that's much more likely if you believe I've always put your interests before my own." They each had their hands draped over their knees, close enough to clasp if one of them reached up, but Bertie thought Lionel might misinterpret the gesture if he squeezed his fingers, and he knew that now of all times Lionel wouldn't try to touch him. He smiled a bit, and Lionel added, "Besides, now _my_ wife thinks that _I'm_ preoccupied."

"Does it bother her?" Bertie paused, realizing what this meant. "She knows that I come here?"

"I've never mentioned your name to her, yet somehow she's got it in her head that I have a very high and mighty patient. She thinks it's rather exciting."

Startled, Bertie laughed. He had wondered whether the neighbors had spotted him and talked. "I hope you intend to introduce us one day. I shall have you both put on the guest list for some event or other."

"That might be a mistake. When she meets you, Myrtle will pretend not to know how we might have met, and may invite you out for tennis or bridge." Lionel smiled fondly, and Bertie found himself grinning as well.

"I'm glad you have such a wife -- you deserve it." He waited for Lionel to look at him in a semblance of innocence before continuing. "I understand everything you've said. Thank you for being honest with me. I hope you know that I would no more take advantage of my family's standing than you would of your position as my speech specialist." He waited for Lionel's nod. "But I think you should know that I can't promise to stop thinking about it. Or wondering whether someday, things might be different."

"Many things might be different. Live long enough, and you might be King." Lionel chuckled softly, but Bertie only stared, his throat tightening with the panic that word so often triggered. "Or not," Lionel added quickly. "I only meant that we can't know the future. We can only try to do our best with what we have now."

"Practice makes perfect, isn't that what you're always telling me?" asked Bertie, letting his fingers brush Lionel's before he sat back. "All right, Doctor. I'll go home to my wife and you'll go home to yours, and I daresay we'll both be happy there. For the time being. Now, help me with these tongue twisters."

 _I love you much too much to pretend otherwise._ No one had ever expressed love to Bertie so unabashedly, not even his daughters. His chest felt warm and his throat relaxed. He would take that happiness home with him, where Elizabeth would be waiting. And he would see Lionel the next day, and the next.

"She sifted seven thick-stalked thistles through a strong, thick sieve," Bertie began, and laughed.


End file.
